Maybe you know them -- those nice, sympathetic advertisements in which it is loudly and boisterously announced: the real, genuine, excellent, first-grade, inimitable and selected Var cane for making bassoon reeds; the Reed Cane behind which there is no other cane, nor over here or elsewhere in the Universe.
Maybe there's something else you know as well or even better -- the grumbling, swearing and disgusted bassoonist, endlessly making reeds and complaining about the quality of the reed cane available now in all the music shops, everywhere, from Here to Eternity.
As a consolation to American Brethren of the Bassoon, it may serve that the reed cane sold in many other countries is just as bad. It is the same in Holland, or rather, it was, before I started to import my own brand from somewhere else. A few afternoons of study in the Botanical Library of our Institute for the Tropics taught me that Arundo Donax doesn't grow in the South of France alone -- that there are some other places where it shoots up just as well.
But before all this, the cane situation over here was rather a gloomy one. And so, in the late fifties, it happened: the Pilgrimage to Var.
Lots of players come to me regularly for advice -- small adjustments, a new bocal or other items; and as it was late in spring, with summer holidays looming in the distance, talks often went to what they were going to do in the long summer vacation our orchestral players have.
One, I will call him "A," said he was going to France because he had not yet been there. I strongly cheered him, at the same time advising him to replace the wheels of his car by a set used on heavy tractors -- because of the excellent condition of the roads. He said he would go to the South of France, to the Mediterranean Coast.
"In that case," I mused, "you might as well go to the Var district and get yourself some of that excellent, genuine, selected reed cane -- it grows there!"
"A good idea." he said. "I'll do it!"
Then in came "B."
"Where do you go in summer?" I queried.
"To France," he replied. "First, to see the castles along the Loire . . ."
"Excellent!" I remarked. "See you get the keys to the wine cellars!"
"And then East, to the Vosges Mountains, and er . . . well, er . . . since I am in France then, I might as well go South and get some of the most exquisite, inimitable, unsurpassed reed cane from Var!"
"You do!" I said. "Bring back some for me also."
Others came along, planning summer tours all over the Continent, and one wanting to go to Scotland to see where -- according to the weather reports -- all our depressions are made.
Then came "C." He was direct and up to the point.
"I go to Var and to Var only," he said, "and no mistake about that. I don't like a long tour, hanging about in hotels or campings. I'll drive to Var, get me some of that precious, nice, most excellent reed cane and come back immediately."
I wish you luck," I replied.
Summer came; the orchestras became silent; the musicians went all over Europe and as usual, we got a lot of picture postcards from often the most unexpected places. By the end of August, most players returned.
"A" came first to see me."
Well," I asked. "How about the exquisite, the selected . . ."
"To hell with it!" he said. "I didn't get any."
"Why not? --the whole South of France is stuffed with Arundo."
"It damn well is; only I could not get it. There were jungles of it -- also a lot being dried in the sun -- but the ruffians curing it would not sell me any!"
"How did you talk to them, in German?"
"No, damn it -- in good French."
"Did you say, 'Vive la République'?"
"I did. In response they swigged from a bottle."
"That is just like them; it's a tradition!"
"It must be."
"Did you say, 'Vive de Gaulle'?"
"I did that too. Their reply to this was, to say the least of it, opprobrious."
"You shouldn't have said it, perhaps."
"Did I know? Anyway, they would not sell me any, although I wanted to pay on the spot."
"Too bad," I said.
Shortly after, "B" returned, gloomily.
"Well," I began, "how about the choicest, selected real Var . . ."
"I'll tell you HOW," he replied. "Nothing! Absolutely nothing!"
"I don't understand," I said. "Looking at a botanical map of France, it appears that the whole South of the country must be one large forest of Arundo Donax, profanely named --reed cane."
"It is," he went on. "There's lots of the stuff; complete woods, and curing places where they let the stalks dry in the sun expertly. But the gypsies overlooking the premises would not let me have any!"
"I'm beginning to wonder what they do with it," I remarked. "They advertise it loudly -- cane for woodwind reeds. And when, as a bassoon player, you get there and want to purchase some, you cannot get some. Strange!"
In assent, he nodded. "I spoke to them in French. They were smoking the most abominable cigarettes I ever smelt. Besides, they were constantly swigging from wine bottles!"
"You should have done the same -- entered the premises with a bottle under your arm to show solidarity."
"I'm afraid it would not have helped much. I showed them the real, excellent exquisite French money I had -- and as a reply they put a bottle of wine upright in their gullets. I happened to have a few American dollars which I produced then. They looked at it and burped. After this, I didn't dare to show the handful of other foreign money I also had, for fear they would reply to this with something still worse!"
"Bad luck," I said. "Bad luck . . ."
"Finally," he continued, "there arrived one disguised as a gentleman. Apparently he was the boss of this outfit, and of this bunch of cave dwellers. He was very polite and said he could not sell me any -- it was défendu by the firm. But I could go to their office in Paris and get some there. So on the way back I called at the Paris office. There was a swarthy-looking madam, smoking cigarettes and hitting the bottle at frequent intervals. She told me nobody else was in, everybody having gone on holiday, "aussi monsieur le president!"
''Monsieur le WHAT?" I asked, aghast. "Heavens, this isn't old Charles' office, is it?"
She shook her head, smiling, and informed me they only sold clarinet reeds anyway. Empty-handed, I went."
A few weeks passed by, and then came "C." After the other two's experiences, I was not too optimistic. But I pretended to be in high spirits.
"Ah!" I cried, with well-feigned joy. "Three cheers for . . ."
He gave me a withering look and threw a few pieces of cane on the table. "Look!" he shouted. "Is this worth three cheers?"
I inspected the specimens. "Good heavens, no!" I said: "To what dustbin did you go to get this . . .this . . .?"
"To Paris!" he said.
"Paris?" I queried in surprise. "Not to Var?"
"I went to Var first," he began. "Boy, the cane I saw there! The exquisite, genuine and unsurpassed ones grow over there by the mile. You could walk a whole day in the Arundo woods without getting out. Quite a lot of it was being dried in the sun, guarded by crowds of hot-eyed Mediterraneans. But they wouldn't let me have any. They only gave me the addresses of three firms in Paris -- all residing in the same house. This would simplify matters, I thought, in case one or two did not sell me the goods.
I got there all right, on the way back. And, accustomed to always seeking it higher up, I first went to the second floor. Here two gentlemen were sitting at a table munching croutes, the French bread they bake in the form of a walking-stick -- or a stalk of cane, for that matter. At my request for cane, they replied they only sold it for export. At which I remarked that, being a Dutchman and leaving the country soon, I would certainly be exporting it. But this would not do. I had to be a recognized dealer. I said I was willing to become one immediately, here and on the spot. But this did not satisfy them.
So I went down to the first floor office, where I was told that they had quite a lot of Arundo and would gladly sell it, but only wholesale. I asked them how much was wholesale, at which they replied their smallest wholesale batch was a large railway car full of the stuff! It didn't help me to make clear to them that even under the most ideal conditions I could not dispose of such a load within a lifetime and that I was willing to start my wholesale business by purchasing a wheelbarrow full. They remained aloof.
So I finally descended to the basement where I entered the other office, my last hope. Here it was lively, and a lot of people were busy. One man sat reading a newspaper. A gentleman with a square-trimmed black beard sat counting paper clips. Somewhere in the background a girl stood up, took a bottle, held it with outstretched arms high above her head, and started pouring the contents from that height into her mouth!""That's the Spanish way of drinking," I remarked. "She must have been Iberian. What was it?"
"No idea -- certainly not hot coffee. Well, the bearded one stood up and received me cordially. The rest listened. I put my request for reed cane, `pour faire des anches pour le basson.' They all nodded. They understood. They were sympathetic. The beard offered me coffee, which I accepted. Of course they had cane -- the very best, and they sold it, any quantity - from a single piece to a shipload. Would I follow? The Beard led the way and my spirits rose.
As we walked along a number of endless corridors, I visualized where we were now going: to large stores where millions of pieces of the choicest lay ready for shipment, neatly stored and packed in air-conditioned rooms, where experienced employees in immaculate white coats were deftly handling the precious things.
My dream ended when suddenly I found myself in a large, noisy and dusty factory, where a lot of workmen -- aided by machines and tools -- were turning the unsurpassed stalks into garden furniture!! Not REEDS, mind you -- but chairs and tables! The Beard proudly showed me the works. It appeared that on assembly, the legs of the chairs and tables were kept too long. On completion, these were sawed off to the right length. The pieces thus left were kicked in a heap in the corner. It was quite a heap-a mountain. In front of it the Beard stopped. 'Here,' he said. `This is it: the finest, the choicest, the . . .'
`What?' I queried, aghast. 'This offal -- this garbage??'
'Certainly, my friend,' he replied, 'and pick what you like!'
Dumbfounded, I went to browse in the mountain of refuse, and I found little enough that I thought fit to make reeds out of. I paid very little for it (they certainly didn't over-charge me.) And that is my story of my pilgrimage to Var, in Quest of Arundo Donax, and no laughter, please!"